The Rainbow Connection
by kheelwithit
Summary: Matthew needs to find his Rainbow He's got a folder full of tickets, a map, a bank account that's mostly empty, a backpack and a lotta colors to experiment with. It'll take some time, but he'll get there. brHe'll get there.


The Rainbow Connection

_Someday he'll find it, The Rainbow Connection_

_The Lovers, the Dreamers and Matthew._

Chapter One: Graduation Without Gratification

Matthew Williams can recall a time when he wasn't so _scared. _When he and Alfred used to sit in front of the television eating Eggo waffles from the toaster and watching TiVo recorded episodes of children's shows even though they were twelve. Bear and The Big Blue House, Rollie Pollie Olie, Sesame Street, and The Muppets. All of it. Alfred liked singing (off tune) along with Luna and Bear at the end of the show best. Matthew didn't care for that, the Sun's song was better. But his favorite would always be the Rainbow Connection. He'd stay, straggling behind his brother, who was always already running to the bus stop, to hear his song, every morning; even if it meant he always held the bus up a few extra seconds. He sung along quietly, standing reaaaaal close to the TV, with a stupid grin on his face and backpack in hand.

And now, when he's at his graduation, he doesn't ever want to hear that song again. It makes him sick to his stomach and he doesn't understand _why_. The only reason he's not in the dirty high school bathroom puking all over the place is because no matter how wobbly his knees are, he's got to get this stupid piece of paper. Get it and get the hell out of here.

He feels something burning it's way up his throat. He holds it down.

"Williams, Matthew" It comes again. Like a _battering ram _against his throat. But he's up. He feels faint and nauseous. He climbs the steps, nice, slow, steady. One, two, three. It comes again. And across the stage. He feels like he'll vomit tiny butterflies. It comes again. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Stop.

"Congratulations, son. Salutatorian ain't half bad," The principal should really stop eating so much ranch and garlic on his salad. It makes his breath something hellish and the bits of garlic are stuck in his flavor-savor 'stache. There's even a piece of spinach stuck in his teeth. And the battering ram wins.

**Hu-uh, hu-hu hu-**_**gluuuahghpht ptu'kaaah...**_

"**God**_**damn**_** boy!**" His vomit is acidic and bile and mucous and lasagna and bits of celery splattered all over the Principal's obnoxious red suit. The crowd is gasping and laughing and 'ooh'ing and the people in the front row are holding their noses.

This certainly is one for the books. He looks dazed as he turns to the crowd, an eyebrow raised like 'what'chu gon' do?'

He blacks out.

ROYGBIVROYGBIVROYGBIV

It's hot... that's all Matthew thinks when he wakes up to his High school infirmary ceiling. For a blissful time, there is only him, heat and the blur of what he thinks are moldy spots above his cot. No principal, no graduation, no vomit and no responsibilities.

"Heeeeeey~ Mattie," Then Al comes in, a red white and yellow and blue blur. He buries his face into the flat pillow on his cot.

"'way, Al. I dun' need this right now," He really doesn't. Maybe if they just leave him here, he can rot away quietly, mooching off of dumdums from the nurse and holing himself up in this tiny corner here.

"Are ya' sure? 'Cause I mean, I can go, but if you want me 'ta stay..." Sometimes Matthew can't even understand why his brother Alfred even bothers. The last time they actually spent any time together was at Alfred's sixteenth birthday, around eight months ago, and even that was only for two hours. It's not necessarily his _fault, _it's kind of Matthew's. He's not built for anything like that. No friends or social things. He's too quiet and blendable, unlike Alfred. Always big and stalwart and bright.

"Go hang out with your friends, or whatever, Alfred. I can deal," Alfred never knows what's on his face, it's always so open and Matthew feels a little but of burn when Al grins and runs out. Of course, Al has friends. He shouldn't be so bothered. A few minutes more and he can hear a car screeching out of the parking lot. He gets up, slides the glasses on the side table onto his face, picks up his diploma from the side table and stands to leave. He catches sight of his vomit covered gown. He throws it in the trash, goes out into the lukewarm rain, catches a bus home and goes the hell to sleep.

He's got a big day tomorrow and he's sick of this one.

ROYGBIVROYGBIVROYGBIV

_'rngrngrngrng' _

Matthew snorts as he wakes up, furrowing his brows as he sets up on his elbows and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He pokes his eyeball (which makes him significantly more alert, if not annoyed) as he's struggling to put on his glasses again so he can read the caller ID.

_**'Author Kirkland' **_He snorts at his shitty as ever wordplay. The man's real name was Arthur, but his stuffy British way of saying his name sounded like author, _and _his love for all things written had made the nickname to impossible to resist. It used to fit him better when Matthew didn't know he was an editor and they were just Sci-Fi enthusiasts at a café house.

"Hey, Arthur,"

_"Afternoon, lad. Just want to run over last minute terms and conditions and things, in case anything awful happens,"_

"Really, man, stop worrying. I've already been through this a thousand times. One year and eight months. You've got all my numbers and I've told you more times than I can count that I'll update once a week _minimum_. What could you possibly go over again that I haven't _already _heard?" The line is quiet for a minute. Arthur's always been fond of him, to the point where he spent more time with the man and in his private library than he did his own home, debating on the best books and eating boxed cookies (woe to the man who ingested anything unpackaged in that house) 'till he fell asleep in his armchair. Matthew figures he's probably on the verge of crying; his only friend is leaving him for a long while.

_"Fine. I- I'm probably pestering you, I know I should really let you-"_

"Talk to me. For a little while," The least Matthew can do is show him that he will miss him.

_"..about what?" _

"Anything. How was your day?" Arthur inhales from the other side of the line and Matthew's won, because once he sucks in air like that, there'll be no stopping him. He wiggles out of bed, phone still pressed to his ear as he goes downstairs for a bagel and maybe some coffee. There'll be no more sleep for him tonight in all likely hood. May as well get a snack and do some last minute run throughs. There're no bagels, he settles on a creamsicle, rummaging around in the box because he can't stand the raspberry flavored ones and forgets the coffee, there's only Alfred's decaf left.

_"And then she had the gall to say I couldn't spot a run on sentence! Honestly, I don't know what I even put up with this for anymore. It's not like I do it because I'm paid well,"_ Matthew hums and agrees, closing the freezer and slurping on his creamsicle. As an editor, he'd pretty much consented to being shit broke for the rest of his life, save of course, his impressive fortune of books. The trials for doing what you love, Matthew guesses. He goes back into his tiny room. It's really clean, now. Empty and Spartan because nearly everything he owns is being put into storage. The only thing left is a brand new camouflage colored backpack. Not those flimsy ones either. A proper backpacker's kind. He'd put money towards this, and absolutely would not have inappropriate equipment. He carefully sits down on the carpet, as not to bother Al and his Mom. They have to do things tomorrow, no frivolous trips for them. Al's got to go to school, he's got another year, not quite done yet. His mother's got to go to work bright and early.

_"I really should have gotten a new career, you know. I'd have been able to come with you,"_ Arthur's soft tone is bittersweet. He really wanted to, Matthew knows, to come with him would have been the adventures that he'd been long without. But his treatment didn't come free, nor was it pocket sized.

"You say that like you'd have come if you could afford it," He says as he bites out a side chunk of frozen goodness.

_"I actually might have,"_

Matthew stops rustling through the contents of his bag.

"Don't say things like that. You _need _this and I won't be responsible for getting in the way. I wouldn't have let you go,"

_"Stop lying to yourself, child,"_

"After you do," Arthur snorts. Matthew double checks that he has toothpaste. He does.

_"Where are you going, when you do?" _Arthur's managed to keep from asking, and Matt's pretty sure its because he'd get jealous. Why he needs to know the night before is any bodies guess.

"Everywhere,"

_"Be more descriptive; I want to know,"_

"...Toronto. Then Dublin, London, Madrid, Paris, Naples, Vienna, Warsaw, Budapest, Stockholm, Athens, Istanbul, Bangkok, Seoul, Sydney, Cape Town, Sao Paolo, Lima," The line is quiet again. He knows the list is long and maybe a bit ridiculous, but this might be his _one _chance to do something so that he doesn't spend the rest of his natural born life wishing he hadn't. It ain't every day that dates for these around the world sorta things just _line up_. But if the world wants to work in hilariously clichéd tour bus/plane tickets/three star cruise ways, hey, who's he to stop it?

_"Why're they all big cities?"_

"I won't be staying there. Flights just come cheapest that way. I'll be taking buses all around most of the time, so I'll see everything,"

_"You'll take pictures of it all? People too?"_

"Especially," The last bit of popsicle nearly falls off and he can hear Arthur snuffling.

"Artie, c'mon. Don't do that to me, hmm?"

_"Do what?"_

"Don't cry for me, eh?"

_"Stop sounding so damn romantic. People'll get the wrong idea," _For a long time, Matthew knows that Arthur has and will keep avoiding any sort of 'wrong ideas'. Matthew knows it's due to his treatments and all the problems that naturally come with it. People usually aren't willing to engage in a relationship with minimal sex. Much less a relationship with a grouchy, introverted bad cook who never says what he means. Matthew thinks he would, and has offered several times to prove it. Arthur rejects because he can never tell anymore if Matthew wants to do it to show him, or because he means it.

"Doesn't matter. Unless _you _have someone on the other line,"

_"Shut up,"_

"Want me to get off, then?"

_"No!- Well, yes.. I-its still late. Almost three. You should be off to bed, big day tomorrow and all that rubbish,"_

"What if I said I couldn't sleep anymore?"

_"Count some damn sheep," _ Matthew laughs, but obeys, shuffling across the carpet on his hands and knees and climbing into bed.

"One, two, three, four-"

_"Smart ass,"_

"G'night Arthur, talk to ya' in the morning, eh?"

_"S-sure. Good night, Matthew," _A sob from the other line, and Matthew waits 'till Arthur hangs up instead of doing it himself. He turns over, but he can't quite go to sleep.

"Five, six, seven, eight, nine-" He keeps counting 'till he passes out.


End file.
